Tracker Jacker Vendetta
by Paper moth
Summary: This year's Hunger Games will not play out as anyone imagined. It begins with a reaping and ends in blood. Viewer discretion is advised. A character study, AU.
1. Chapter One

**The Technicalities of Reaping**

That morning, after watching a man die in my backyard, I stood in the rain with father's standard issue Capitol umbrella. It is the sort of umbrella that tells the rest of District 11, in a completely pompous fashion, yes I am one of them.

Stay away.

And usually you would. On any other day, you would not fail to note the contaminated air that suffocates people like me. It engulfs us regardless of our feigned reassurances and pathetic protests. The fact that we sit in your schools, walk on your streets, stand at your funerals does not change the single fact that matters most; we sentence you to death. We are the reason for your misery. If today were not indeed today, sufficient reason for you to disappear would be the mere glimpse of the sliver Capitol insignia on the back of my umbrella- lets face it the fact that I carry one at all! You would, no doubt, scurry back into the Subsections and fade in that way you are so accustom to. You are simply scenery after all.

But not I.

Although I am not someone who matters anymore than you, to the people who actually matter, I matter_ enough_. Peacekeepers, Enforcers and Repenters all fall into this category with me. We are a foreign piece of putrid flesh grafted onto the very heart of your being. We are, if only by association, the Capitol. Surely we must be, for then why would we carry their umbrellas? Don't take this that wrong way and assume I am a typical self-hater, because this isn't exactly what I think of myself. But it is how you see me, isn't it?

And today I see like you.

...

My hands clench tightly around the cold metallic handle, which only seems to cool further beneath my grip, as someone knocks into me. Their ridiculous lack of direction and big head cause the canopy above to shiver in the cold. I hear a mumbled sorry from one of the many girls milling about, but I do not care all that much. I simply look up into the nothingness and wonder what on earth am I doing here? Why am I in the middle of rain so fickle it hangs undecided between the sky and ground; on muddied earth, in my little black dress, best velveteen gloves and fathers falling apart commando boots? The former pieces of clothing you will come to understand soon enough and the latter is a mere practicality.

Against the backdrop of, the head maid, Miss Perry's horrified shrieks I changed into the boots only after father was well and truly out of the house.

"Shut up!" I snapped at the livid woman beside me. "I can barely walk in those things."

Technically today is a day of celebration, so the white, glittering number, father himself chose to go with my outfit, are a ceremonial must have. However, heels on a good day would see me with a twisted ankle and no less. In this weather? I snicker at the thought. Lets just say it is not happening. The pending raft of one thoroughly pissed of parental, when he collects me for the after party, is something I will deal with in good time.

Although it is my least favorite sound, second only to sobbing, I sigh a lifeless, disappointed sigh. Miss Perry says that sighing, among other vices, makes me seem ungrateful. 'Noa is an ungrateful child' is her mantra. She probably repeats it over and over in her head whenever I make so much as a peep, something I seldom do. Better seen and not heard, right?

The crowd gets bigger and still I stand in prefect attention.

I see so many girls move past they blur. It is funny how the blur keeps its distance and only occasionally strays close enough to disturb me. You would find the scene from a distance seriocomic. I mean, here I am standing under the halo of my umbrella, the only one with such a halo, in a crowd full of despair. And even though I am the only one there who truly looks depressing, completely dressed in black and all, it is obvious I do not belong. That is the joke. In fact, I am, despite my best efforts, untouched by the melancholy that hangs above all the girls here and all the boys there and the rest of the District that stands behind.

"I hate Reapings," comes a muffled voice to my left. They are swiftly met with grunts of agreement, and with that the subject is quickly swept away, replaced instead with talk about how dashing some young fellow named Millin looks. Thank goodness too, imagine if a Peacekeeper heard!

Sigh.

This is why I am standing with my peers, although I doubt that is how they see me. It is another reassurance really. Regardless who my father is, I am sixteen and therefore technically I am reapable. Technically.

Without moving the umbrella I look up at father- the reason why for as long as I live I am untouchable. It is a joke. The Capitol should just make a rule and get on with it. _Any progeny of a current District Mayor has full immunity on Reaping Day_. In over a century not a single mayors kid has been reaped, which only confirms the long-standing rumor that our names do not even make it into the draw. And then you wonder why I have no friends. Obviously, to the rest of the District I am the poster child for injustice, evil, what have you. Like I had a say in the matter.

Whatever.

Father is mostly obscured by the podium. From what I can tell he looks, as usual, completely morose. He is never happy. So much so that his features are permanently contorted in a scold, much like the one I wear right now. People say that is how you can tell I am his daughter, not because I have his features but because I share his constant unhappiness. They never say it exactly but that is what they mean. It is always_ you are so much like your father _but never _you look so much like your father_. It is never that.

I look like her. Even if I have only ever seen maybe a photo or two of my mother, I know I am her height and lankiness, completely unlike his stout and heavy-set physique. Although said photos are quite dated, you can still tell I am her honeycomb, lightly dusted with gold specks complexion, not his commanding ebony. I am to the untrained eye _her_ and therefore, by his assertion, I am unsightly. I even have her piercing onyx black eyes. His are hazel.

Like every other person in the District I have know idea why he went for my mother. She was originally from the Subsections, and thus well below him in status. They only met after she became one of the first Repenters. The Repenters are 'patriots' who carry the sins of the rebels- well that is what we are taught anyway. Basically after the failed Mockingjay uprising the Capitol gave Districts an ultimatum- repent or perish. Either whole subsections would be bombed, aka perish, or only a handful would volunteer and repent. In the early days most Repenters were immolated in extravagant public displays, but a few, like mother, where trained instead to be the obedient lapdogs of the Capitol. Nowadays this consists mainly of living incognito in the Districts, as lifeless shadows, reporting to the Capitol about the underground.

It was this act of loyalty, I think, that first caught father's attention. And by the time he found out she was coerced into it and, more importantly, was completely hopeless at it, it was too late. I don't care what father says though. According to Miss Perry, who is a lot of things including disturbingly truthful, she was genuinely _nice_. That, in itself, is reason enough why he didn't deserve her or rather why we didn't- no matter what she looked like. He once told me the biggest disappoint and the greatest joy in his life was my birth. Disappointing in that I was well... me, and joyous in that I killed her. Do not ask me why he tells me things like this, but it has always been that way. When he does talk about her all I get is the like.

Father straightens up a little now and tugs slowly at his jacket. I gather we are about to start and that pink idiot Keyz swaggering onto stage only confirms this.

Well, the sooner we start the sooner we are done here, and the sooner I can get out of this rain.

...

I woke up this morning to the sharp _whoosh_ sound of leather smacking into bareback. I cringe automatically, gritting my teeth as I make my way to the window. People who break the law on Reaping Day, too me, are like people who break the law any other day- citizens. However, people who break the law on Reaping Day and get caught are a different story all together.

They irk me.

I find them hard to pity. Go ahead and think poorly of me and my apparent lack of empathy but you would too. Everyone, _everyone_ knows that on Reaping Day if you do not get lucky and instead get caught, you end up dead in my backyard. It doesn't matter what you did either. Whether you stole a single apple or the whole tree, if you do anything outside of the law on Reaping Day the penalty is a cruel death, usually a severe wiping followed by an execution. That is why you would be hard pressed to find anyone who would test their fortune today, of all days. And that is why I convince myself it serves you right if you _do_ and it all goes pear-shaped.

District 11 is ruthless any day of the week, count on that, but come Reaping we become heartless killing machines. And it happens in the same backyard I eat my lunch in, all because the town square is occupied and shooting them on the spot isn't torture enough.

"Goodness grief...why?" I moan as I lift the heavy curtains and rub the sleep from my eyes. Whatever other snide comment I was about to make is sucked right back in with my gasp of shock.

How is this guy not screaming?

Hunched over double with his hands tied to the gazebo pillar I see his back. It is so torn up it looks like he is carrying on it a bed of poppies. Blood and flesh are all I can make out. The Peacekeeper lifts the whip again. It comes down with such force my eyes flutter shut.

Shit.

The whip hits part of the guy's face and only now he lets out the smallest grunt. You get some like this, those who are so determined to act like they aren't suffering when clearly they are. Usually I would make some off-hand comment about how it is foolishly pointless of them to try to hide their pain but I couldn't then. All I could do was watch in awe. I think I got it.

_Please don't scream. Please. _

The rain washes over the pair and a puddle of blood slowly accumulates. After a while the Peacekeeper shuffles back inside and I am left with is the sight of a heaving man, covered in bits of himself, bleeding to death in my backyard.

...

Why does our District get a pink alien? Some places have glamorous vixens with noses pointing at odd angles or mohawked giants with no apparent eyes. We get Keyz, daft as a stump and altered head to toe to look exactly like something you would throw up and then spray paint fluorescent pink.

At present, Keyz sits poised, in what seems like a second skin, nodding occasionally as he listens to father speak. This is what I am suppose to be doing too, but of course I am bewitched instead by the side-show that is Keyz. I have a list I started years ago of stuff Keyz does during Reapings when he thinks no one is looking. There is everything from saying inappropriate words, or mouthing at least, to not blinking for minutes on end (if at all), blacking out and the all time gem picking his nose. I kid you not! Zeky Keyz actually picked his nose at the 103rd Reaping, the same year he was dressed as an exotic bird-man and surprise, surprise the District 11 tributes died in the bloodbath. The real injustice is that despite the hundred billion cameras perched on stage not a single one caught the moment. I thought at least someone else saw, but when I asked Miss Perry she told me to stop my slander. Just my luck, right?

Today it looks like Keyz is on his best behavior and therefore an absolute bore. I divert my gaze and look over at father instead.

"We rose above the Rebels, the filthy degenerates! Those who mocked our autonomy, our intelligence and we crushed them like vermin!"

Insert Keyz clapping away like a rabid little morphling addict. With nothing else to do I mouth the rest of the spiel, which goes unchanged every year, and even pause dramatically before father screams- "Long live the Capitol! Long live Panem!"

Indeed, she says sarcastically.

Keyz jumps up as father moves away and, still clapping, makes his way to the podium.

"Thank you, thank you Mayor Omri," he says in his unnaturally high shriek turning to father before looking back at the despair.

"My... don't we all look absolutely fantastic!"

Keyz then proceeds to laugh unashamed into the mic, which actually causes a small snicker from me as well. He always seems to crack himself up over nothing at all, it is kind of cute.

The usually pleasantries follow before we get to the part everyone dreads. Even me.

"Aha!" he always leads into it like that, throwing his hands back in mock glee. "On with it shall we. To the ladies! May the odd be ever in your favor!"

The rain picks up as Keyz ever so slowly goes for a name. He is such a dramatic. After an extraordinary peroid of time he retrieves and unfolds the piece of paper whose favor the odds clearly were not in. And then he does something that blows every other stupid thing on my damn list away.

Keyz bursts into tears.

Huh?

I snort and roll my eyes. Like I said what a dramatic.

"Oh my, my, my what an honour!" Keyz whispers between sobs before screaming the name like it is his birthday wish.

"Qui'noa Storm Omri!"

The crowd takes a collective gasp.

...

No.

No.

Take it back Keyz, burst into laughter now and tell me it is all a joke. Tell_ them_ you are joking. Go on Keyz tell them I am like you. I am hatable, I am the enemy. Technically I can be reaped but tell them that technically it will never happen. Not now, not ever. Go on.

I give Keyz only a second more to tell them. That is all I can afford. Damn it that is the best I can do.

One.

_Please don't scream._

...

The Peacekeeper had yet to return and the man was coughing profusely ever since his departure. I watched him slowly cough up some more blood. I couldn't tell you why I stood there in my awful pink nightgown and watched him suffer but I did. Could it be, I of all people need more moments in my life that provide conclusive evidence I am a horrible person?

Maybe.

It is probably this awful sense of self-pity that causes me to open my window and scream.

"Hey!"

With much effort he lifted his head up, his eyes locking on mine. I had nothing planned to say, not that I could say anything after the look he gave me. Even with blood dripping from the open wound on his forehead, the look was unmistakable. His eyes oozed poison. They said what his lips could not.

I. Hate. You.

Why shouldn't he? I am the enemy after all.

The window shuts and the curtain falls against my limp hands, but I do not move. In the biggest house, in all of District 11, there is a girl waiting for the universe to have mercy and allow her to take it back. All of it.

My history tutor claims that after the failure of the uprising they terminated the mockingjays. The old bat must be lying though because you can here them real clear from any window on the second floor. There were always heaps in District 11 so even if they did try I can't imagine they got them all, and after a while I suppose there was no point trying. With the death of the rebels and their ideals, mockingjays were, once more, simple birds not worth the bother.

That morning their sweet song is overcome by a quick succession of blasts, momentary silence, and then the sound of someone else being dragged in.

_Here you go Noa_, the universe whispers, _have your mercy._

_._

_._

_._

**AN:** thank you so much for reading. I am sorry for the rubbish editing, truly I am. I promise I do try. This is an alternate universe piece. I wanted to tackle the toughest District and couple it with a character all the other tributes will easily hate... or something like that at least. I was going to do Madge but I don't think she has the rawness I'm going for so this is the insanity you get instead :]

Any feedback is welcome with open arms.


	2. Chapter Two

**The Small Things**

Father is my first visitor.

When I see him I let out a sigh of relief. The wait had felt unusually long and, despite myself, I was starting to worry. To pass the time, I rehearsed a speech that never made it past 'hello'. What should come next? It is an impossible task; sentenced to death and given five minutes to say a lifetime worth of goodbyes. I use to think myself astute but this is something else. I am overcome, only not in the way you would expect. There are no outbursts of emotion, I do not crumble instead I am silent and empty of everything. Waiting.

It is only when I see Father sit on the wooden bench, as far away from me as possible, that the true tragedy of the situation registers. Except a morose greeting, which I do not even manage, I have absolutely _nothing _to say and, as if that wasn't bad enough, Father has put a gulf between us.

My lips automatically clamp shut because Father assumes his serious pose; legs are crossed and his hands lay upon his knee. He looks incredibly suave in his new midnight blue peak lapel suit, which complements his deep colouring. Coupled with his decisively neutral expression and you get the Mayor of District 11 looking as important as he ever has.

The only time Father sits in this manner is in meetings that end in bloodshed. I remember when the field worker's president filed a complaint about shift hours and was shot, not five minutes into his peal, by Father himself. Back home, the conference room and the library are remnants of the older building that predated the Mayor's Mansion. Although both rooms were renovated at the turn of the century, they still have their perks. The mouse hole right between the 'Q' and 'T' shelves, which I often used for spying, is one such perk. It is thanks to this tiny hole that I understand the relevance of Father's body language. I am suddenly very afraid.

A sick feeling begins to simmer at the pit of my stomach. It comes to boil when Father motions for me to stand. I do reluctantly. Under his gaze I feel like a lone cockroach cornered by an angry chief wielding a pot. I find no reassurance in knowing what is going to happen next.

Father is going to bring the pot slamming down.

He looks at my feet.

"Where are the shoes I bought you? Why are you wearing those things?" His eyes narrow.

The scuffed commando boots I have on are no longer serviceable; they are like lead. If you threw me into the ocean I would drown due to their sudden heaviness. I look at them only for something to do. One of the laces has come undone and the fresh mud smeared up the sides slowly dries. They are muck colored, ugly and I have done nothing to improve them. I look back at him, after a moment longer. Why hadn't I just worn the heels? From his locked brow I know he is still waiting for a reply.

But I have none.

How could there be one? I shrug instead, knowing that it will only anger him further and hating myself for it. I am an antagonist. From now on, that is all I can be.

As I suspected, he snaps and begins to rant and rave. He raises his voice as if he is calling me from a great distance. There is no holding back for Father now, not when I have well and truly set him off. His words are eager to come out and land like shards of glass on my skin. A deep sadness overcomes me because today I cannot bear the weight and pain of Father's disappointment. I did not want this. I do not want Father to be disappointed at me while I sit my deathbed. All I wanted him to do was hug me, lie and tell me everything will be alright. God, how bad I wanted that generic bullshit.

"Enough," he says taking a much needed breath.

"What do you have to say for yourself?" he asks after a moment more.

There is a pause as I wonder exactly this. What_ do_ I have to say for myself? Somehow without thinking the words come, like they had been there all along.

"I'm… I'm sorry," and then "Daddy?"

I haven't called Father 'daddy' since I was five. My regression is due to desperation; I am so, so desperate to please him. This is supposed to be the person who loves me most and even if he seldom says it out loud, this is the person who loves me most. Soon I will be dead and it will be all gone. I cannot lose it just yet.

He looks taken aback and the way his right eyebrow twitches tells me that he is examining what I just said for irony. I guess he doesn't find any because his face softens.

"Come here," he says in a quiet voice, arms stretched out. The second the words leave his lips I jump into his embrace. There is warmth everywhere and I think yes this is what I want. I am thankful for small miracles.

The safety I find in his arms brings back the memory of the last time I sat in my Father's lap.

…

Miss Perry hasn't always been a permanent fixture in my life. She only started caring for me when a whole bunch of maids were 'let go' after some pain medicine went missing from the supply cardboard. The way the kitchen staff said 'let go', full with melancholy, gave it a new meaning. Whenever anyone else was 'let go' I knew I would never see them again. No one would.

Years later, a stupidly drunk Peacekeeper, named Flech, confessed that it was actually him and his mates who were stealing. It always struck me how little Father cared. All he said was "what a shame" and never mentioned it again.

In those early days, Miss Perry would bring her daughter, Tangi, to work. Leaving a five-year-old alone in the Subsections was too risky, thanks to the District thugs, some of which wore uniforms. Father did not understand this though, so we hid the pretty little girl in my room whenever he was around.

Tangi liked to bug me to no end about the tracks that run like an invisible seam across town. These tracks are the same tracks that bind us tightly to the rest of Panem. I guess she thought somehow I had it all figured out. But I was only just beginning to grasp the true nature of the Hunger Games.

You see, in some places in Panem, the famous Capitol bullet trains, and accompanying tracks, are symbolic of glory. Certain Districts, like 1 and 2 flaunt the fact their trains are constantly shuffle people between the Capitol and their notorious Victor Villages. In stark contrast, the trains in District 11 only serve two purposes; exporting almost all our harvest to the Capitol and annually whisking away a girl and a boy, between the ages of 12 and 18, to meet a certain death. Maximum input with zero return. No surprises that no one liked to talk about it much.

But Tangi always spoke about the train tracks the rest of us tried to desperately to ignore because she was acutely inquisitive. Even at her young age Tangi required answers and reason for everything. She is the one who got the 'Big White Nothing' theory into my head.

On the day Father found her in my room, and almost 'let go' Miss Perry, she revealed the fruits of her inquiry. We were under the bed hiding from what we thought was a rogue tracker jacker, that had come in through the window. Her small, twiggy arms tightly embracing me as I tried my best not to freak out. After a while, the soft buzzing sound had completely disappeared, but we remained as we were and it was then Tangi spoke.

"Nao you know the tracks right? Listen, I know where they go. I heard my uncle saying that there ain't nothing at all out there and he pointed exactly where the tracks lead. You know the big ol' mountains?"

"'Course I do", I answered a little harshly because I was getting sick of this train tracks business.

"Yeah. Well I guess that solves that don't it? Because there's just a whole lot of nothing there. Can you imagine chugging along in one of them trains, and going just past the mountains and ending up in absolute nothing? It's probably a whole lot of white, huh Nao? Dontchya recon?"

Tangi's small voice was full to the brink with excitement but I never got to share it with her because at 'dontchya' a wasp appeared, hovering above the carpet right in front of my nose. All I could do was close my eyes real tight and scream loud and long for Father.

"Daaaady!"

Father came running into the room and in the most terrified voice shouted 'Qui'nao! Qui'nao!'.

I don't remember much of what happened after, only that I spent the longest time crying in Father's lap. Apparently everyone else was gathered around while he screamed at them, and I too received stern scolding for not tell him about Tangi, but I've forgotten all that. I will never forget how my father had scooped me up in his strong arms and how in them I knew nothing could hurt me.

...

"You are so much like your mother" he whispers in a hollow voice. Usually when he says this as an insult but as his arms tighten around me I know this time it's something else.

"Tell me about her," I whisper back snuggling up closer.

It is too late though. We have wasted our time, not only in this meeting but since before I can remember, being indifferent with each other. At that moment the Peacekeepers come in and I begin to panic, grabbing at the midnight blue fabric, balling it in my fists.

Do I rejoice the fact that I've finally connected with Father on a deeper level or should I be insulted by the timing? I settle on the latter. Today everything good is just out of reach. I am desperately running to catch the glimmers of happiness I see scattered in the distance, but just as I arrive to claim my prize someone snatches all hope away and only death is waiting.

"No!" I scream as they tell us time is up. I plead with Father to tell them to go away but he cannot and when the hands start pulling at me I explored.

"Daddy, no! Daddy tell me about mum. Daddy!"

He is not my daddy any more. He is back to being the Mayor of District 11 and he must behave in a certain way. The Mayor must always follow the rules and time is up.

"Goodbye Qui'nao", he says in a stern, professional way.

"No, no, no," I whimper as the Peacekeepers restrain me, their hands pinching at my skin.

He turns to leave but stalls at the door. Over his shoulder he gives me something more. Perhaps it was supposed to be an expression of love? Maybe it was supposed to make me hopeful? But it is my undoing.

"Make her proud."

And then he is gone.

...

My teeth dig, deep into parts of me but it is not enough. I am exploding. When they come back, all they will find are the pieces of someone named Qui'nao Storm Omri clinging on to the windowless walls. It must happen often. You can smell the rubbing alcohol, hanging uninvited, in the air. It is the token left behind by the person who scrubbed down the walls, who tried desperately to cover up the smell of dying.

My head spins.

The dull thud, that started up after the results of the reaping were read is now a stampede. Something from deep within me has packed its bags and is now eating its way through my right temple.

_Make her proud._

I cannot.

The light above is harsh and pure. Below it, I feel dirty. My stomach churns as it tries desperately to bring up my breakfast and I bite down harder. My left canine draws blood. It tastes awful, metal like and salty. I only bite more.

This is how I make sure I do not scream.

By the end of it I am breathing hard through my nose, and have to beg myself to let go. _Nao, please let go of your arm, this place, District 11, please let go of Father, of Mother ._Most of all, I beg myself to let go of the hope that someone else is coming. No one else will come.

I wait for nothing to show up and even it fails to arrive. For the first time I cry and I hate myself for it. The sobs come out in small groups; they are the soft murmurs of my darkest secrets. I let it all consume me- tears, headache, dying- and lay back in the small wooden bed. If it were possible, I would retreat deeper and become smaller until I could live in the dark cold of my own heart. It is not the best alternative, but it beats this.

_Where is Miss Perry and her magnificent mess of hair?_A new fit of tears erupt just as the old begin to subside. No one else is coming. How is it that I am so unloved? I was never expecting a parade of friends, I know most people in the district do not like me, but surely there is someone else?

Anyone else.

It is like this until a Peacekeeper drags me out. I make it as hard as possible for him by acting like a dead weight. My body is a bag of bits, slamming hard on to the concert floor. Most of the force filters though my right knee. Even if I wanted to, I could not walk now. The Games have not started yet, but already I am more broken, hurt, torn up and aching than I have ever been before.

If I can do this to myself in little less than thirty minutes there might be hope for me yet. It is a disgusting thought but what am I to do?

"Get up," the Peacekeeper hisses through clutched teeth once it is evident to him that I do not plan on going anywhere soon.

I lay there, counting down the seconds as I desperately pretend nothing is hurting. His hands grab at me; they are a vice, one that does not weaken even as he moves. Beyond his grip I drag behind, possibly unconscious, like a limp afterthought. This is how the maids went about removing trash from the mansion. I am something to be disposed of. To think I use to be dignified and now I am simply trying my best to not matter, to melt into the floor and vanish. It is humiliating, but I have no more pride, I can't remember if I ever did.

_Make her proud._

How?

My only resolution is to not pay attention and I fail in keeping it because there is so much to notice once outside of the room. Overwhelmed I am only aware of a few things. Someone has told me to stop crying; they pull me up and give me tinted glasses.

I am being led somewhere.

"Stop limping. Good god they'll have you for dinner!", a husky woman's voice tells me.

Like a good girl I try my best to listen but my knee is aching. The smell of earth mingled with a heavy musk hits me hard as my ears perk to a foreign buzzing that lies beyond. I realize before I see it where I am heading, though I should have known.

My breathe catches.

They are feeding me to the Big White Nothing.

Surely I am already dead.

.

.

.

AN: Thank you **Finding Tobias** for all your help :). I thought I should** finally** put this up. There is a lot of angst here and the pacing is a bit off but hopefully it's OK.

EDITS: I've been editing this frantically! The last part did not seem like the natural place to end this chapter so I've removed it. We're leaving the district!


End file.
